Well, then we get into using living people as facilitators, which is how they vote. And they involves qualifications, aethical standards, verification and so on.

No, I think what we need is a good VVVHF interface, a sort of ectoplasmic-sensitive mesh antenna, in which those on the other side can settle and transmit their moves by emitting impulses. This would have the effect of rendering the world of the living into a sort of video game for the dead -- just assume a viewpoint among the sensor mesh and start emanating. ANd the beauty is that no-one can accuse you of "wasting" time, since you are playing from Eternity.

Let's see: chess, of course, and checkers (draughts); Candyland; Chutes (Snakes) and ladders; some of the electronic games, like "Simon" could take on all new dimensions. Baccarat, Chuck-a-Luck, roulette, three-card monte, poker (give a whole new meaning to "Dead Man's Hand"), even Uno.

I wonder if a market niche is out there waiting to be filled for Seance-Games? I think for starters, we could have a lot of fun with Pictionary, maybe Monopoly, and charades using the odd piece of furniture.,.. How to rig up the board and pieces would be a technical challenge, but there could be millions in it for the right innovator...

Table tipping cribbage will never catch on -- it lacks the robust excitement of the real thing, the thrill of the peg, the clatter of the cards or dice or whatever those are, the slap of the board as the pegs fill in, the sighs, the moans and the cheers of the very small crowd.... nothing like it to restore the zest to a man's life. Deance style cribbage just can't compare.

Of course not, Amos. I was able to find a log (or something like one) and surf right out to the treatment plant. There I was rescued by, believe it or not, my very own uncle, the treatment plant Supervisor who happened to be supervising the inflow at that very moment. He plucked me off my "surflog", washed me down, and took me home. My parents were, of course, so distrait over my accident that they had nearly missed pegging out in their cribbage game and my return was met with wild exclamations of profound apathy.

Our family cabin at Lake Whatcom in Washington State had a pump house for water in the sink and a spigot outside in the boat shed for the wringer washer, but no sewer, so there was an outhouse up the hill. My brother had a big toy boat he threw in - twice. Mom fished it out, cleaned it up, but the second time I don't remember if it stayed down there or she fished it out and threw it away. I remember it was a big deal at the time. (He was 3 and I was 5.)

You could get a cell phone...just don't drop it in. They plug up toilet really bad and don't work very well afterwards. If you drop it in a real outhouse you might not want it back, but it could be interesting to call it when someone else goes in.

Well guess what? I cleaned out the cupboard over my washer and found about 1000 feet of phone cord in there. Enough to run from the kitchen way out back to the outhouse, just like Mom wanted. Martha Mitchell isn't the only one to make calls from the Loo!

It was hot at the San Diego Zoo yesterday -- the hottest April here in recorded history, according ton one source. It was so hot we had to buy frozen lemonade cups to continue our stroll among the carefully-architected domiciles of the various inmates.

Although sometimes I wonder. I saw on two occasions young monkeys standing thoughtfully at the edge of their fences looking out and obviously thoughtfully observing the primates on the other side of the boundary.

They were probably wondering if they should put us on the Endangering Species list, I guess.

The gorillas were torpid, lying around with their flanks pressed up against the glass, showing the leatheyr bottoms of their huge feet.

The flamingos were having a bockerfest, jumping up and down.

Down on the Pacific coast, earlier this weekend, a hundred seals lay about on the sands of what was once the Children's Cover, demonstrating complete torpor.

It was really hot.

And it is only April. I believe we have a number of miles closer to the sun to go before the height of summer turns.

Mom's lucky I cleaned the garage and donated so much stuff, or this branch of the family would have had to pay in addition to the amount withheld. It's time to move this stuff to other good homes, especially when holding onto it when I have to pay taxes is like paying rent on it and then not using it. Know what I mean?

Alas, poor Mom! Left alone to fret on Tax Day Eve! Fret not, cher Mama, for I have completed and filed your taxes for you like a Good Child should. Did I mention that you're getting a very nice refund? You are...quite enough for that new bone china tea set you've been wanting and a lot left over.

No, I was out walking in the mountains again today. Gotta do it early before the fanatics arrive, all mountain biking and running and rock climbing and stuff, their MP3s blasting rock music into their brains.

You should have just cut the pole off about four feet from the ground, sanded it a bit to encourage rust, and called it an installation piece of post-modern deconstructionism. That's what I'm doing with the ex-satellite antenna post in my back yard: it's an "object d'art" and not a mud-ugly pole sticking out of the ground.

Mom, I'm pooped. I finished digging out the pole for the basketball hoop. You know how narrow and deep you dig the hole to put the sucker in with a few bags of concrete? It's the opposite, a open pit operation to get it back out again. And once you've dislodged it, if you're by yourself, you have to fill the hole back and rock it around in different directions to finally get that 1000 pounds of concrete out of the hole. At least it rolled down the driveway easily. I hope if anyone does take it (that'll be a trick) they don't knock down my little pine that's nearby.

Back on the subject, "eldritch" is defined in the American Heritage as Strange or unearthly. I don't think there is any question that Rapaire's rich store of knowledge (or at least data) is strange. But I would suggest you might want to think twice before admitting to the unearthly part. Not even Book-Man can calm the savage breast when earthlings start to believe they are being served by extra-terrestrial forces...

Has anyone seen any publishing companies nosing around, wanting to put MOM into print? I hear about blogs being transmogrified. Certainly MOAB is due such consideration, what with the clever blend of poetry, prose, and science fiction.

A good beknight to you alle was hee, With courtly aire Bestride his steede, beside yee seee, Yclept Rapaire. With ale this knight was allus free, With honour, tight And so renowned his wyse wordes, And so, benight.